The Unknown Soldier
by ChiefArmourer
Summary: A story for Remembrance Day. Sequel to 'Lest we forget'


The Unknown Soldier

A story for Remembrance Day.

Sequel to 'Lest we Forget'

* * *

A year.

Three hundred and sixty five days since he had stood in the lounge of the loyalist base surrounded by friends new and old and remembered what war had taken from him. One year and one month since he'd begged Soap not to die as bullets flew around him; his pleas had been in vain.

So much had changed in that single year. Yuri: he was dead. He'd paid back what little trust he had given him tenfold when he had sacrificed his own life to right the mistakes of the past. He'd given Price the one chance he had needed to end Makarov for good. The bastard was gone. A conflict twenty years in the making was finally over. He felt hollow. The war had robbed him of nearly everyone that mattered to him; his brothers, friends, and the one man who had been like a son to him. He had his name back, his honor, his home, but he still struggled every day to find a reason for it all, a reason to keep going. Soap's family had spat in his face when he'd gone to offer his condolences for the loss of their only son; he'd wanted to tell them what Soap had meant to him, how he had been the one to pull him up out of the hell hole his life had become in that frigid wasteland, and how he would have traded places with him in a heartbeat. But they hadn't wanted to hear it, all they seemed to see was him alive, and their son dead. How could he blame them?

Gaz's family had been a little more understanding: five years to mellow their pain and anger at him for being the now sole survivor of Bravo team, and now knowing what their son had died for.

And his? What family? There was never anyone to greet him at the door when he returned to his dingy little flat; no one waiting excitedly at the gates for him. Not even Mac, so busy with work, keeping the SAS in one piece following the loss of so many. Not Nikolai, working in Russia to rebuild his country from the ashes left by a mad man.

He was alone, sitting on a train in his immaculately pressed uniform heading for London, to stand at the Cenotaph to lay a wreath for his men, the men that had been murdered by the mad and war hungry. The men who had no markers where their bodies lay, and would never return to their homes.

He would have given his life for any of them, they'd all had futures; he had nothing.

"You look sad, lad," the voice, course with age spoke softly from the seat beside him. He turned, and was met by the face of an elderly man, likely approaching his nineties, with a familiar moustache that made him chuckle. The man huffed,

"What is it with you young people and not appreciating a proper 'tache," he grumbled, stroking the hairs proudly,

"I used to have one myself," Price admitted. Oh the names the men had had for that! Soap hadn't thought much of it either, "the boys hated it so much they tied me down and shaved it off," Soap had been the one wielding the razor. He wasn't so sure of Riley though, never quite believing his story that he'd honestly misheard when he'd used a taser on his captain. It had made the shaving job easier for them so Soap had protected the Muppet from retribution,

"What's got you down lad?" The old man asked, Price had to guess he was ex-military, only Mac ever called him 'lad' and there was something in this elderly man's tone that reminded him of his old CO. He sighed, shoulders slumping as he fiddled with the top button of his shirt, he was sure the little bugger had to be an ultranationalist sympathizer; it was trying to throttle him.

"Last year, I saw this day in a bunker somewhere in eastern Europe, my best friend just dead, and the last remaining member of my task force," he all but whispered,

"Ah, the cost of war. You know, whenever I ride a train, I wonder how many ghosts sit on these tracks, young men taken to war, never to return home. You would think we would have learnt by now, but still we sacrifice our young to bullets for pointless causes," he lamented. Price's eyes narrowed,

"Defending the world from a mad man is not pointless!" He snapped, "I lost my grandfather fighting the last one, and the man who was like a son to me this time, so don't you dare say it was pointless!" a smirk spread across the old man's face,

"But don't you see John, that was what you thought," he said. Price physically jolted when he realised that the words were true. How many times had he screamed to the heavens, asking why Soap's loving god would let so many good men die such pointless deaths? They hadn't, those young men had given their lives in the defense of their country, and their freedom. Willingly and without regret they had stepped onto the battle field knowing full well what the consequences might be. Just like his grandfather had known all those years ago, when he had donned a German uniform and stepped onto that ship, knowing full well that if he was captured he'd be shot. It was the same sacrifice he had always been willing to make.

"You wonder why you're alive," it was a statement, not a question, and it was true.

"They had so much to live for," he whispered,

"Don't you?" his companion challenged, "you have people who love you," Price sighed, he had, once.

"I lost her when I let her brother die," he whimpered, a tear falling down his cheek as he felt his heart break again. Soap had introduced them, his funny, cunning and beautiful older sister who mothered her baby brother as much as her own young son. The little lad had been such a little ball of giggles, hanging off him and begging to be told another story. He'd always obliged. He'd thought that there had maybe been something there, a chance for him to have that someone to greet him at the door. But she wouldn't want to see him now, not after letting her brother die.

"He wasn't your responsibility, she knows that," Price wiped the tears from his eyes. He was right in a way. He'd never been officially reinstated as an active member of the task force, he'd never been Soap's CO, and certainly not free. They had been disavowed. Soap had made the decision to follow him on that damn mission to kill Shepherd, he'd not forced him. They had been equals, Soap's decisions all his own, hell, he'd helped plan. But so long as a commander of men had left him with an ingrained sense of responsibility to anyone he served with, he couldn't help it. A warm hand lay on top of his,

"You have to let it go lad, you have to move on, remember, but move on," he said. Price's chest tightened, tears falling unbidden from his eyes as all the walls he'd built crumbled down. Soap had fought so hard against his defenses, but it was the softest of attacks that had breached the defenses around his heart. He was a broken man.

He wasn't sure how long he sat like that, crying on a train full of strangers, a kind elderly man holding his hand. It felt good, just letting it all go. All the people with fancy degrees had told him that he needed to talk about it, but he hadn't listened, Soap had always said he was stubborn. He was reminded of the sub, all the medics and his fellows shouting at him, insisting that he go to a hospital for treatment. But he'd thought he could deal with the dark thoughts on his own, that they couldn't beat him. "There's no shame in asking for help," he nodded his head slowly, he was ready now, it was time to get the help he needed, it was time to move on. He straightened up, wiping the tears from his eyes, he felt a mess.

"Thank you," he replied, the most heartfelt thanks he had ever given someone. His life had been so changed by a chance encounter on a train.

"Lad, you promise me that you will go to her, find that happiness, and live your life to the fullest, for every one of them," John Price nodded, he made that promise in his heart and mind, and to Soap's god, and every other deity out there. When the ceremony was over, he would go to her, fight past her family and tell her how he felt for her, and he would get the help he needed.

He glanced down at the wreath he held, its red poppies, and the names of his friends and men written on it; he would never forget them,

"Go stand lad, go stand for them all and lay that wreath to rest with every other soul who has lost their life to war, and maybe one day we will remember, and never let it happen again." The train swayed as it slowed into Paddington station, a final jolt as it came to a stop. Normal people, from all walks of life stepped onto the platform, each with a poppy on their chest, John Price stepped off the train with the first smile he had worn in over a year. At eleven o'clock he would stand to attention in the city of his birth, listen to the gun sound and fall silent with a nation, with a heart full of hope and future. He turned to look at the old man, to thank him again for what he had done for him, but he was gone. The train was empty, the platform empty, all the commuters had moved on, and he doubted a man in his nineties could move that fast.

Then he realised something - He realised he'd never told the man his name!


End file.
